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A word from the wised-up might be helpful for Mrs. Rooney as she navigates the same shoals of matrimonial crisis, tossed hither and yon on crashing waves of adultery scuttlebutt, swamped by humiliating headlines.

Hunkering inside her Cheshire mansion, Coleen Rooney, like her golf-wife doppelganger, is pondering a similar dilemma: Shall I stay or shall I go?

Of course, a key difference is that her Manchester United icon husband doesn’t appear to give a rat’s ass either way.

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No forelock-tugging contrition from the man who would be next captain of England’s soccer squad. No apologies. No sex addiction rehab.

“Deal with it,’’ The Mirror quotes Rooney tersely telling his spouse, as that same tabloid prepared to publish its tittle-tattle scoop about the footballer’s serial romps with a high-priced hooker. “Move on.’’

Or out. It’s all down to you, Coleen.

The 24-year-old is Planet Earth’s WAG-in-chief, successor in the morganatic marriage of soccer ’n’ scandal to Victoria Beckham, who also knows a thing or two about sucking up intimate embarrassment in order to retain status as Queen Bee of the spousal roster. David Beckham, football savant and world’s hunkiest simpleton, got his media-outed legover with a former assistant, possibly because he was tired of making conjugal love to a piece of gristle. Posh sized up her options and stuck it.

Ten months ago, Coleen gave birth to the couple’s first child, a baby boy called Kai. While she was pregnant, hubby was out shagging a seasonal call girl — six months on her back, six months kicking up her heels as party animal on the Continent. By the lady’s count, there were seven bookings at nearly $2,000 per night. Personally, we’re fascinated by what skill-set services are available for two grand in this field and if boink-and-blab Jenny Thompson, who’s all of 21, might kindly put out a training video.

What’s easier to swallow for a cheated-upon spouse, you think, a string of trashy mistresses, a la Woods, or a straight-up money-for-sex transaction?

Thompson has been described by friends as an ambitious hustler who craved the jet-set lifestyle of gazillionaire jock-girlfriend. Yet she had morals, oh yes, and demurred when Rooney allegedly begged her to come spend the night at his matrimonial home while Coleen was away. Threesomes with Rooney and a gal-pal, that was okay, but trespassing on the wife’s hearth was one transgression too far. “I thought that was a bit much,’’ Thompson told The Mirror. “You’re really bringing your dirty washing home, aren’t you?’’

Unlike the image-spun Woods, Rooney has always been a clod, the working class git blessed with one particular gift — exceptional talent on the pitch. His elevation to superstar firmament never took the edge off that coarseness, nor improved Rooney’s personality. Hardly a bend-it hunk either. Attraction is always in the eye of the beholder, however. Thompson put it charitably: “I know a lot of people call him Shrek but he’s not that ugly when you’re sat in front of him.’’

Where she sat, exactly . . . we just don’t want to go there.

The woman’s parents, Hamish and Dana Thompson, issued a statement Wednesday saying they “would like to offer our most sincere apologies to Coleen Rooney and her family.”

The unapologetic tackiness of the Rooneys, high school sweethearts, actually invested them with a sort of gormless charm. There was some sweetness in their combined success story, up from the backstreet grunginess of Liverpool, Coleen delighting in her bad-taste bling and over-the-top princess wedding on the Italian Riviera.

Those vows were exchanged not long after Rooney’s teenage visits to a brothel were likewise exposed in another British tab, including trysts with a granny in a rubber catsuit (“Auld Slapper,’’ as she was known) and a mother-of-six dressed as a cowgirl. Coleen forgave her intended those youthful caprices and Rooney issued a public sorry: “It was at a time when I was very young and immature and before I had settled down with Coleen. I now regret it deeply and hope people may understand it was the sort of mistake you make when you’re young and stupid.’’

He’s no longer so young. He’s still so stupid, apparently thinking an escort-service prostitute could be trusted with discretion. “Don’t tell anyone.’’

That first, somewhat ancient betrayal, gave Coleen pause to consider a wedlocked future with Rooney. In her autobiography, Welcome to My World, Coleen wrote that she was still a virgin in those days, so this apparently made it semi-okay for her boyfriend to seek the ministrations of a harlot.

But Coleen isn’t an awed, awkward, overwhelmed school girl anymore. She’s made something of herself, albeit off her husband’s fame, at the centre of her own burgeoning business and media interests said to be worth nearly $10 million. If not quite a sophisticate, she’s certainly glammed-up and polished down the Tesco bits, with her own line of clothing, fragrance, endorsement deals, a magazine column and TV show.

Rooney may lose some of his endorsements — Nike, for one, has issued a statement saying they will stand by their man, as they stood by Woods when other sponsors skedaddled — but Coleen surely has nothing to fear in that respect. Unless, of course, Wayne-less means her cachet goes poof!

That’s the conundrum for all women who hitch their wagons to a star via marriage, as if there’s much more to forfeit when a high voltage union goes bust — the celebrity-by-proxy, the fantasy lifestyle, the reflected glow from sleeping-with-the-eminent.

Elin kissed it all goodbye, if comforted by a divorce settlement rumored upwards of $100 million.

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